Lady Magnolia and the Duke, it read.
Lady Magnolia? He caught his breath. That’s why the name had seemed familiar to him.
Once upon a time in London, Lady Magnolia Makepeace, of 123 Grosvenor Square, was pretty, popular, and titled. She had everything her heart desired, except, of course, a proposal from a gentleman. But Lady Magnolia was lucky, for she was about to meet the man she was going to marry.
After the first few lines, Adam found himself enjoying the story. It was entertaining and well written. But where did it come from? Did Maggie write it? Or Cecelia? If not, where did she get it? And why did she have it in her arms that day while walking alone through Mayfair?
Adam read faster, flipping the pages as quickly as he could, devouring the text. Nearly twenty minutes later, he stopped and looked up from the novel—for it was indeed a novel, and as he’d originally suspected a romantic one—staring unseeing and dumbfounded at the violet-colored walls of Lucy’s bedchamber. There it was, the second name he’d been looking for: the Duke of Loveridge. Blast it.
She thought that she was the heroine from this story and he was the hero. Two entirely nonexistent people.
But there had been no mention of danger. None whatsoever. If Lady Magnolia in the story was not in danger, was Maggie (or Cecelia, or whatever her name was) truly in danger?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Maggie felt a bit guilty. She clearly did not enjoy shopping as much as Lucy did. She’d been perfectly ready to follow Peter’s suggestion and remain in the house. Apparently he’d taken her quite seriously when she’d told him last night that she felt as if she might be in danger. It was only a nagging feeling, really. Something she couldn’t quite place. But Lucy seemed more than ready to ignore Peter’s warning. And it was Bond Street, after all. Maggie remembered enough to know that the prospect of shopping on Bond Street should have her squealing with joy. But as they bumped about inside the duke’s coach, nerves crept up Maggie’s spine.
“Your, ah, mother asked me to ensure you had enough things for the next few days,” Lucy explained, patting Maggie’s gloved hand where it rested in her lap.
The explanation no longer made sense. Even if it were true that her mother was ill, why didn’t they just send to her house to gather her things or send a maid with them? But fear kept Maggie from questioning it aloud. Something was wrong—very wrong—with her stay at the duke’s house. And panic kept her from voicing it. Instead, she smiled and nodded at Lucy. Then returned her scattered attention out the window of the fine coach.
They’d already been to the modiste. They were back in the coach, wending through heavy traffic, on the way to the milliner’s. Maggie glanced at the woman sitting across from her. Oh, out with it. She couldn’t keep silent any longer. “Lucy, I know there is something you’re not telling me. Something about my mother, perhaps? Is she all right?”
Lucy’s head snapped up to face her. Her kind eyes were filled with empathy. “Oh, dear. She’s perfectly all right. At least I hope she is.” Lucy worried her bottom lip with her teeth.
But there had been something else on the tip of her tongue, something else the pretty lady had been about to say. Instead, she shook her black curls and reverted her attention out the window. “We’re almost there.”
Maggie folded her hands calmly, much more calmly than she actually felt. She would let it rest for the time being. Her kiss with Peter last night had been … unexpected, surprising, unforgettable. But how long could she stay with him and his family? Surely people would begin to talk soon. And why wasn’t anyone telling her the details about her mother’s condition?
The coach came to a stop in front of a quaint little hat shop. The footman pulled out the stairs and helped both ladies to alight.
“Here we are,” Lucy said. “Madame Bissette. She makes the most adorable hats. I ordered one a fortnight ago. I do hope it’s ready by now.”
Lucy picked up her skirts and turned toward the store’s entrance. Maggie made to follow her. They were nearly to the door when a child’s voice stopped them. “Cecelia!”
There was that name again. Maggie turned toward it. Why did it sound so familiar?
“Cecelia, is that you?”
She swung around to see a light-haired girl rushing toward her through the throngs of other shoppers. Lucy’s eyes were wide.
“Cecelia, it’s me, Mary,” the girl said, coming to stop not a foot in front of them. She was panting and coughing, her small shoulders shaking, but she wore a look of supreme relief on her pretty young face.
Maggie shook her head. The girl looked familiar but she couldn’t quite place her. The panic that had seized her last night at the ball when the blond lady had called her Cecelia returned to nearly choke her. “Cecelia,” she repeated. “I’m sorry but I don’t know who Cecelia is.”
“Cecelia? You don’t recognize me?” The girl’s face had turned both anxious and confused. She wrung her hands. “We’ve been looking for you. For days.” Her coughing intensified.
“Are you from my mother’s house?” Maggie asked the girl, a mixture of confusion and fear filling her own voice. The adamant manner in which this girl insisted she knew her frightened Maggie.
Lucy stepped in between Maggie and the girl and whispered to the girl in a low but calm voice. Maggie couldn’t hear everything she said, but she saw Lucy present the girl with a card.
“Please pay us a visit at this address this afternoon at two o’ clock,” Lucy told the girl, before bustling Maggie into the shop.
As soon as the shop door closed behind them, Maggie turned to Lucy, trying her best to keep the alarm from her voice. “What was that about, do you suppose? Someone else thought I was a woman named Cecelia? And did I hear you invite her to the house this afternoon?”
Lucy tugged at her collar. “I’ll explain … later.”
Maggie glanced out the window. The girl watched them for a moment with a completely bewildered expression. She stood on tiptoes staring into the shop before glancing down at the card and then blending back into the crowd.
Maggie took a deep breath and turned back to Lucy. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me, Lucy. I must know the truth immediately.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Adam jogged up the steps to Derek’s town house. He’d just spent an interesting hour with a neighbor. Mr. Cornwall lived around the corner. Earlier, when Adam had been reading the manuscript, it had hit him. Mr. Cornwall was a publisher. Perhaps Maggie—or Cecelia—had been visiting the older man. It still didn’t explain how or why—or even if—anyone had been trying to hurt her, but it was the only clue Adam had. Thankfully, his guess had paid off.
Mr. Cornwall’s butler, a man whose eyes were half closed, had ushered Adam into the study, where Adam had explained the situation. Mr. Cornwall had admitted to Adam that yes, indeed, he was familiar with the work. He’d seen it and apparently rejected it. It wasn’t profitable enough for him. Though he insisted he wished to hell it was.
“Quite a talented author. Quite,” Mr. Cornwall had insisted.
“Do you remember the young woman’s name?” Adam asked, sitting on the edge of the large leather seat in front of the man’s desk. He’d scoured the manuscript but hadn’t found the author’s name.
The older man had stroked his chin and hemmed and hawed before ringing a small brass bell that sat on the end of the desk.
A short man with spectacles materialized from the next room clutching a leather-bound volume. “Yes, sir?” he said in a nasally pitch.
Mr. Cornwall cleared his throat. “What was the name of the young lady I met with two days ago, Marshall?”
Two days ago? The timing piqued Adam’s interest. Maggie might well have been returning from the appointment when she’d been struck by the carriage. Marshall’s nose twitched incessantly as he thumbed through the leather-bound book that was, apparently, his employer’s appointment book. Finally, he stuck a wobbly finger in the air. “Here it is. A Miss Harcourt, sir.”<
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“Ah, yes, Harcourt.” Mr. Cornwall nodded. “That’s it.”
“Was her Christian name Cecelia?” Adam asked, nearly holding his breath.
Mr. Cornwall’s eyes narrowed briefly before they lit with recognition. “Yes. Yes, now that you mention it, I believe it was.”
Adam exhaled, letting his forehead drop into the hand that rested on the desktop. “Thank you, Mr. Cornwall.” He stood to leave. “You don’t happen to recall any more about her situation or her family, do you?”
Mr. Cornwall tapped his quill against his ledger. “It seems to me she mentioned a sister. But that’s all that I recall.”
“This might sound odd, but did she tell you that she was in danger?”
Mr. Cornwall frowned. “Danger? No. Nothing of the sort.”
Adam bowed to the older man. “Thank you, sir. You’ve been a great help.” He turned to go.
Mr. Cornwall’s voice stopped him. “You know, I’ve had my doubts since I turned her down. The manuscript was quite good. At least the amount I read.” The publisher sighed. “I wish I had the money to invest in projects like Miss Harcourt’s. I daresay I might make a go of it, but I’m far too old to be taking such risks. Though I will say the young woman made plenty of reasonably arguments for why it might be a sound business investment.” He chuckled.
Adam nodded and took his leave. He spent the walk back to Derek’s house contemplating Cecelia’s situation. For it was surely Cecelia Harcourt, aspiring author of romantic novels, whom he’d been keeping company with these last two days and not Lady Magnolia Makepeace, heroine of said novel. Cecelia’s speech and mannerisms smacked of being born into the ton, yet she was not a lady but a miss. And apparently a miss who was willing to or in need of working for an income if her family allowed her to write and attempt to sell her writing. The name Harcourt was not familiar to him, however. Perhaps Lucy would recognize it.
He tried to imagine Maggie meeting with Mr. Cornwall, attempting to sell him her book, and arguing with him when he refused her. Was it that important to her? And why? Why would a lady of the ton be trying to sell a novel to a publisher to begin with? It was quite unheard of. Was it for the same reason that she might be in danger? And if so, what was that reason?
He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to re-create the moment he’d met her in his memory. She would have been dejected that day when she’d been hit by the coach. Dejected and possibly distracted. She hadn’t been attempting to hurt herself, had she? Adam swore under his breath. He couldn’t bear to consider that possibility.
He pushed open the front door of the town house and marched into the blue drawing room where Lucy could usually be found at this time of day. Thankfully today was no exception, and (also thankfully) she was not receiving callers. His sister-in-law was sitting on the settee, the pages of Cecelia’s novel scattered around. She glanced up guiltily when Adam strode in.
“Lucy? Have you been—Are you crying?” He’d never seen strong, capable Lucy cry.
Lucy pulled a handkerchief from her décolletage and pressed it to her eyes. “I can’t help it,” she sniffed. “It’s just so beautiful.”
“What is?”
“The story, Lady Magnolia and the Duke. I adore it. I was up half the night reading it and just now finished when I came back from shopping. You must admit that it’s absolutely fascinating that the poor girl thinks she’s a heroine from a novel.”
Adam strode over to the settee and pushed some of the pages aside to make a space to sit. “Lucy, listen to me. I think I’ve discovered who she is.”
Lucy nodded vigorously. “Me too.”
“Cecelia Harcourt,” they both said in unison, then looked at each other with wide eyes.
“How did you know?” Lucy burst out, still clutching her handkerchief.
“I had a guess and went to visit Mr. Cornwall around the corner. She met with him two days ago. How did you know?”
“We went shopping and encountered her sister on Bond Street. When I returned home, Hughes informed me that her sister had been here earlier this morning and was looking for her.”
Adam’s eyes nearly bugged from his skull. “How did her sister know she was here?”
“I don’t know. I gave her my card and asked her to meet us here at two o’clock but at the time I had no idea she’d already been here. We didn’t have much of a chance to speak.”
“Did Cecelia recognize her?”
Lucy laid a hand atop the manuscript and sighed. “Unfortunately no, but I asked her for their family name and managed to convince the poor distraught girl to pay us a call this afternoon. I’ve sent for Dr. Archibald. I’m hoping once the sisters sit down and speak it may trigger Cecelia’s memory. I do recognize the name Harcourt, by the by. I wonder if Viscount Harewood is her uncle. I seem to remember his brother and his wife being killed in a carriage accident not long ago.”
Adam swallowed. Was that Cecelia? The niece of a viscount? An orphan? But if her uncle was a viscount, why did she need money desperately enough to try to sell a romantic novel? “Has the family fallen on hard times?”
“I doubt the viscount has,” Lucy replied. “But one never knows. The brother who died was the youngest if I remember correctly. I’ve no idea what his income may have been. But I do believe there might have been a strain in the family, too. Perhaps her Lord Harewood isn’t caring for her.”
Adam crossed over to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. “Did you try to tell Cecelia her name?”
“Yes.” Lucy sighed again. “Nothing. She’s worried, Adam. She’s frightened. She knows her mother isn’t sick. She insisted I tell her the truth. I did my best to keep her calm and not upset her any further, but she suspects something.” Lucy dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief again. “I don’t know what we’ll do if her sister can’t spark her memory.” She smiled. “Have a permanent houseguest, I suppose.” Lucy laughed. “Or perhaps you’ll just have to marry her, Adam.”
Adam clenched his jaw. He couldn’t marry her. Not now. Not ever. Especially not if she was the niece of a viscount. He might have standing in Society being the brother of a duke, but it wasn’t an old, established title. And the youngest brother of a duke wasn’t exactly the preferred match a viscount might relish for his niece. If her uncle was Lord Harewood, Adam doubted he’d want his niece to become Mrs. Secretary at the Home Office. But the real reason Adam couldn’t marry Cecelia, the reason he shouldn’t have ever even touched her, was that he didn’t deserve her. She’d been at his mercy, not knowing who she was. And like a complete louse, he’d enjoyed it. Enjoyed it more than he should, certainly, this poor girl’s misfortune. Enjoyed pretending to be a duke for two days, enjoyed how she’d made him feel special. How she’d made him feel wanted. Of course it hadn’t been him she’d wanted. He’d always known that. It had been who she thought he was, a hero in a novel. A mythical duke. Not a real man. Not him. Not Adam Hunt. Not ever. But it didn’t change that fact that he’d been an utter ass to have enjoyed pretending, if only for two days.
Adam tugged at his cravat. A knock sounded on the door, and both he and Lucy turned their heads. Cecelia’s face appeared in the opening. Her hair was up, and she wore a fetching pale-green gown. Adam immediately stood. He couldn’t help his smile. He’d come to look forward to seeing her. How could he feel that way after a span of only two days? His chest ached. He’d actually miss her when she was gone. Which, of course, made no sense whatsoever. He glanced at her again. He couldn’t help but remember their kiss. His breeches tightened. Perhaps Cecelia remembered it, too, because she blushed beautifully and averted her gaze.
“Yes, dear?” Lucy called to her. “What is it?”
Cecelia entered the room and stood nervously shifting from one foot to the other, the fingers of one hand encircling the opposite wrist. “Lucy?” she ventured. “I think I remember.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Maggie wanted Peter to be in the room when she admitted that she remembered the gi
rl in the street from this morning, but the butler came in directly behind her.
“Dr. Archibald has arrived,” the butler announced.
Peter nearly sprang toward the door. “I’ll go see him settled.”
Maggie gave him a tentative smile before he brushed past her leaving the room, the butler following close behind. Peter’s presence was a comfort to her, she realized. That’s why she had wanted him to stay.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Lucy pushed aside a large sheaf of papers she’d been sitting amid and patted a space next to her on the settee. Maggie drifted over and took a seat. She gestured to the papers. “What is all of this?”
Lucy gathered the pages near her and set them on the table in front of her. “It’s not important now. Tell me, what do you remember?”
Maggie took a deep breath. “The girl, from Bond Street. She was familiar to me. I’m sure of it. I’ve met her before.”
The hopeful look on Lucy’s face faded. “I see. I—”
Another knock on the door interrupted them as the butler reappeared. “Dr. Archibald and Mr. Hunt wish to see you in the next room, Your Grace, er, my lady.”
Maggie shook her head. The butler had been getting people’s names confused since she’d come here. Maggie frowned and turned her attention back to Lucy. “Who is Mr. Hunt?”
Lucy patted her coiffure. Her multicolored eyes darted back and forth. “Excuse me for a moment, won’t you, dear?” She, too, stood and hurried from the room.
* * *
Dr. Archibald was pacing in front of the windows in the next room when Lucy entered. Adam had explained everything they knew to him, and the older man seemed at a loss.
“This is a pickle,” the doctor announced, rubbing a knuckle across one bony cheek.
The Unforgettable Hero Page 6